


You've Got Muffins

by paintedrecs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baker Derek Hale, First Impressions, M/M, Mattress Salesman Stiles Stilinski, Meet-Cute, Movie References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 18:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedrecs/pseuds/paintedrecs
Summary: When a new bakery opens in town, mattress store salesman Stiles forms some immediate impressions about its owner—which isn’t helped by the fact that everyone else in Beacon Hills seems to adore the guy.***Rivalry with a drop of miscommunication and those eternally pesky sparks of attraction.





	You've Got Muffins

**Author's Note:**

> There was a thread going around twitter about a year ago asking people to list what the abandoned Blockbuster storefront(s) in their towns had been turned into. Mad-madam-m RT'd it to say hers had two, which were now a mattress store and a bakery. My automatic response was: Sterek it! She replied, "I...how???" and I thought, Challenge Accepted.
> 
> When the Sterek Zine came around, I needed to settle on an idea that I could write within the word limit, and which I felt gave a good representation of who I think I am as a Sterek writer. This was my third attempt (the first two got, predictably, too long). I'd be interested in hearing what other people think of when it comes to my writing - what you enjoy about it or what makes it distinctive, if anything - but what's been the most fun for me is taking any prompt, no matter how outlandish, and finding a way to Sterek it.
> 
> So here's a story about two rival business owners who share a love of movies and a hatred (so Stiles thinks) of each other.

Managing a Beacon Hills mattress store wasn’t going to be Stiles’s _career_ , okay? It was a stopgap between college and...whatever else he decided to do with his life. Which was currently a work in progress that he’d gotten about two-thirds of the way through figuring out before shoving it into a box and stuffing it under his bed to ignore for a little longer.

Metaphorically speaking. Although there was a literal shoebox overflowing with grad school brochures, an incomplete application to the police academy, and a handwritten list of Career Goals that Stiles had begun when he was six.

The first entry had been “deputy”—Stiles’s unapologetic hero-worship of his dad hadn’t really changed over the years—followed by “Batman,” then by a series of slightly more attainable options. “Mattress salesman” hadn’t appeared anywhere on the list.

Fortunately, Stiles was _amazing_ at his job. Sales had basically doubled since he’d taken over Finstock’s store. Working for his former lacrosse coach wasn’t as weird as it could’ve been; Finstock had understandably decided he was tired of teenagers and that his economics degree could come in handy elsewhere. He’d snapped up a cheap piece of property on the edge of town and promptly lost half his savings.

The economy was on an upswing now, though; other long-abandoned storefronts were filling up with businesses that Stiles couldn’t believe were pulling in a profit. There was the hipster donut shop, the pet apparel pop-up, and—glaringly visible on his route to work—one of the town’s newest entrepreneurial efforts and the current bane of Stiles’s existence.

Stiles’s stroke of genius hadn’t been _that_ creative, when it came down to it. But he’d done it _first_. And this guy—Derek Thieving Hale—had the gall to move into _his_ town and steal _his_ ideas?

He glowered through his windshield at the new bakery’s obnoxious yellow-on-blue lettering, then revved his engine when the light turned green. The place had been open for two weeks, and even Stiles’s dad was singing its praises. He claimed he only went in for their bran muffins and coffee that didn’t taste like it’d been strained through a twenty-year-old tarp—an issue that apparently hadn’t been solved by Stiles pointedly buying the station a new coffeepot.

Dealing with his dad’s obvious lies would have to be put on hold while he figured out how to confront his archnemesis. Stiles pulled his Jeep into its usual spot with a screeching grind of its brakes and patted its steering wheel in apology before stomping into the store. It wasn’t Roscoe’s fault that Derek Unoriginal Hale was steadily ruining everything in Beacon Hills, including Stiles’s driving, his dad’s health, and Finstock’s merchandise.

Sure enough, several customers followed Stiles inside, dribbling crumbs in their wake. _Hale’s_ customers, that is, not Stiles’s, since over the past week and a half, there’d been a sudden uptick in people wandering over from the bakery, touching everything with sticky fingers, then leaving without buying anything. Even when Stiles threw on his charming sales persona and did his best to steamroll them into high-end purchases, most of them somehow ended up raving over Derek-Annoying-As-Hale.

Apparently he was gorgeous—“like a movie star come to life” was one breathless report, as though actors weren’t already alive—and had unbelievable baker’s arms that half of Beacon Hills wanted wrapped around them. Under ordinary circumstances, Stiles might’ve found this information intriguing. Instead, it just made him hate the guy more.

He was still stewing over it, taking advantage of the afternoon lull to sip from a mug of tepid breakroom coffee, when the most ludicrously attractive man he’d ever seen walked into the store.

Stiles choked on a mouthful of his coffee and narrowly avoided pouring the rest of it down his shirt. He set the mug down on his desk with an overenthusiastic _thump_ that sent a fresh wave slopping over the side and onto a few order forms he’d have to clean up later; he barely noticed the mess, too busy leaping to his feet and plastering on his brightest smile.

Smoking Hot Shopper was wearing a leather jacket and jeans so tight Stiles wasn't sure how he could possibly pull them over his thighs. Stiles slowed his approach, giving himself the space to contemplate that thought for a bit longer.

Hot Shopper had his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his head tilted back as he looked at the displays, but his stance loosened when he heard Stiles’s footsteps. His voice was quiet, smoother than Stiles had expected—mostly due to the black leather, the sharp cut of his jaw, and his intimidatingly beautiful face.

“Are you on your lunch break? I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Stiles brushed at the front of his shirt, hoping he hadn’t spilled on himself. “Nope. Lucky you, getting me all alone. I’m Stiles. Not the owner of this fine establishment, but the mastermind behind it.”

The firm line of the guy’s lips softened, and his inexplicably pretty eyes met Stiles’s long enough for Stiles’s heart to jump in his chest.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been hearing a lot about...this store.” He glanced away, his gaze snagging briefly on the oversized letters spelling out _New Releases_ , then trailing over to the next staging area. “Did you name it, then?”

Stiles grinned proudly. “You bet your ass I did.”

“Is it a Godfather reference? Or You’ve Got Mail? Or both?”

As pretty as this guy was, Stiles couldn’t stop the nearly full-body eye roll. “Are you kidding me? You’re putting those two in the same breath?” He slid into his best Sonny Corleone impression, one of his favorite parts of the store’s rebranding—although not all customers appreciated it as much as he did. “ _Go to the Mattresses_. It’s a classic movie line. There was no way I could pass up that opportunity.”

“Right,” the guy said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, his shoulders hunching slightly. “I have two sisters, so.”

“Got it,” Stiles said, thinking of all the nights he’d spent watching The Notebook with Lydia whenever she and Jackson were fighting. Before he could sympathize further, the guy spoke again, sounding embarrassed.

“Sorry, that wasn’t true. I mean, I _do_ have sisters. But they’d both punch me if they heard me blaming them for my romcom knowledge. Cora especially; she could probably quote that entire trilogy.”

Stiles stared at him, thrown by the confession. “And you don’t like the movies,” he concluded.

“I’ve never seen them.” The guy scratched uncomfortably at the dark stubble along his ridiculously chiseled jawline, looking like he was ready to dash out the door.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Well, that’s easy to fix.”

Hot Shopper made eye contact again, in that weirdly intense way of his; Stiles was all too aware of his own heightened breathing, the rapid fluttering of his heartbeat. There was something about the guy’s long black lashes and the thick arches of his eyebrows that made his pale grey-green eyes stunningly difficult to look away from.

“Is that an invitation?”

It took a second for Stiles to blink back to reality and realize he hadn’t imagined that response. “Yeah! Sure, it could be. If you wanted. Uh.” He pushed his hand through his hair, trying to calm himself down before he blew this. Who _was_ this guy? “You know what, you’re interested in the store’s setup, right? Lemme show you around.”

There wasn’t that much to the tour, but it gave Stiles the space to slow his breathing and practice a few extra pickup lines in his head. He steered them past the Children’s section, with its bunk beds and brightly patterned bedding, then pointed out the particularly bouncy mattresses he’d arranged under the Action banner. “One of my favorites,” he said. “The only spot where customers are _encouraged_ to take off their shoes and jump on the merchandise.”

“Does that happen a lot when they’re not supposed to?”

Stiles laughed. “You’d be surprised what people get up to in here when they think no one’s watching. For instance...” He pulled a heavy velvet curtain aside to reveal the section Finstock had kicked up an absolute fuss about until he saw their profit margins.

“Romance,” Stiles’s shopper said, with a surprised chuckle.

Stiles winked at him. “Our bestsellers, as you can imagine.” He let the curtain fall back into place, the soft, warm lighting washing over them. The furniture in this area did well—couples emerged radiating happiness, credit cards at the ready—and they pulled in a nice amount from overpriced accessories. Customers often went for the full package: silk sheets, the intimate golden glow of cascading string lights, framed posters of classic romance films, even the electric fireplace Stiles had stuck into the corner as an afterthought.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles’s gorgeous shopper said, turning back to him after taking in the full view. “I love what you’ve done with it—using the existing framework instead of tearing it all out, leveraging movie memorabilia.”

“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed. This guy _got_ it, finally. Someone who understood that the admittedly fantastic jokes he could make while moving merchandise was only part of the appeal. It was about indulging his respect for—and deep love of—the movies that had shaped him over the years.

Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long.

“You know,” the guy said, rubbing a thumb over his jawline, glancing at Stiles through those stupidly long eyelashes. “I actually came from another old movie rental storefront. The new bakery?”

Stiles groaned. “Oh god, don’t tell me you’re another fan of _It’s a Frappé_. That’s not even a _good_ Star Wars pun, and that meme’s ancient. Do they even _sell_ frappés?”

The guy stared at Stiles, looking wounded. “There are iced drinks,” he said slowly.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to question your taste, dude, but you have _got_ to find a new spot for your muffin fix.” Stiles tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I don’t think it’s gonna be around for all that long. People like new shit until they realize it’s a cheap rip-off and they’ve got better options.”

Hot Shopper’s mouth tightened, the warmth in his expression fading as he moved to the curtain, pulling it aside, harsh light spilling back in. “I should get back to work,” he said. “Thanks for showing me around. Good luck with everything.”

“Shit,” Stiles said once the bell over the door had tinkled behind him, a mournful farewell. “I didn’t even get his name.”

***

Stiles put his plan into action a few weeks later. The disguise was simple but effective, finished off by a goatee he’d glued carefully to his chin. Since Hale had clearly been stealing his ideas, Stiles didn’t want to chance being recognized while he did some reconnaissance work of his own.

The bakery anchored the corner of a shopping center that also housed a spacious parking lot and a giant white wall that Stiles sneered at while unfolding his chair and settling into it with an angry jumble of his limbs. The parking lot was already filling with the cheerful chatter of families flocking to Shady Hale’s gigantically popular summer film series.

On the surface, it _seemed_ like a positive community-building endeavor—who would complain about free movies every Saturday night? Apparently only Stiles was able to see through the obvious ruse to bring in more business.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t anticipated how cold this stakeout would be. He shivered, hunching down in his uncomfortable seat and wishing he’d incorporated a puffy winter coat into his disguise.

“Even in summer, it gets chilly when the sun goes down,” a familiar voice said.

Stiles froze—not _now_ , not while he was on a mission—but the pull was irresistible. He turned to meet his shopper’s tentative smile.

“Hot chocolate?”

Stiles automatically reached for the cup, then yanked his hand back before he could touch its invitingly warm surface—bright blue, with yellow lettering curving around the side.

“ _You_!” Stiles hissed in disbelief, eyes narrowing behind his fake glasses. He should’ve made the connection earlier, but like everyone else in this gullible town, Stiles had been bowled over by Hale’s overpowering good looks. And here the guy was, sneakily peddling his goods to his captive audience, just as Stiles had expected.

“No charge,” Hale said, holding the cup out until Stiles took it. “Come by the table at the back if you want a refill.” He moved to a family next—bundled up in coats and blankets—and poured cups for each of them, smiling and shrugging away the thanks.

Stiles sniffed suspiciously at his beverage. It...smelled nicer than he’d expected, so he took a begrudging sip, prepared to spit it back out in disgust.

It tasted amazing: rich and smooth on the tongue, warming him up instantly from the inside. He drank the rest down, torn between gulping and savoring it, and hating himself a little for how much he wanted that refill.

He managed to wait until the sun had fully dropped below the horizon, the crowd hushing as the projector flickered to life, the white wall lit by the opening credits of...Stiles spun around, squinting back at Hale, who ducked his head like he’d been caught.

Stiles wove his way through row after row of families, his heart doing something odd when he realized how many couples were present, cozily snuggled together. He fixed his eyes on Hale, who kept his head down, fiddling with the items on the snack table.

“Sticking with Tom Hanks, huh,” Stiles said once he was close enough.

Hale fumbled with a stack of cups, then carefully rearranged them before looking up. His mouth twitched a bit when he finally did; it took Stiles a second to realize why.

“Right,” he said, pulling his hat and glasses off and wincing as he peeled the goatee away from his skin. “Surprise, it’s me. Stiles, from—”

“I know who you are, Stiles,” Hale said, sounding amused. “And I didn’t think The Godfather would be appropriate, considering how many kids come to these.” He moved a tray of scones to the edge of the table, then pushed it back. “I had a few options for tonight. When I saw you here, I thought maybe—you hadn’t said whether you’d ever watched this one.”

“Rival business owners overcoming their differences to fall in love? Yeah, I’m familiar with it.” Stiles tugged a laminated sheet over to see how high Hale had priced his baked goods. Instead, he found a meticulous list of ingredients, with available items highlighted.

“In case anyone has allergies,” Hale explained, watching as Stiles picked out an apple streusel muffin and bit into it.

“Ugh,” Stiles grumbled through a mouthful. “This is delicious, too.”

“Thank you,” Hale said. “I’m Derek, by the way. I was going to introduce myself, before I found out that you apparently hate me.”

“Sorry about that,” Stiles said, wondering if Derek would let him try the triple-chocolate one, too. “I didn’t mean to be a dick about you to your face.”

“It _is_ possible for two people in a town to share a love for movies,” Derek said. “When everyone kept hinting about how well we’d get along, no one bothered to mention that you resented everything about what I’d done with my store.”

Stiles licked the crumbs off his fingers and gave in to temptation. Sure enough, the chocolate one was even better. “I’m assuming ‘everyone’ includes my dad. So tell me: does he really come in for the bran muffins?”

“I give him blueberry sometimes,” Derek said. “Low sugar, and only when it seems like he’s been having a bad day.”

Stiles shivered suddenly, his hot chocolate buzz wearing off.

Derek indicated a couple of empty folding chairs. “Wanna watch from back here?”

Stiles let Derek pile blankets over him, then casually slipped his hand underneath until he found—well, that was probably a little too high on Derek’s thigh, judging from the startled jump, but he obligingly moved his hand so Stiles could link their fingers.

“That invitation’s still open,” Stiles said halfway through the movie, warm from his fourth cup of hot chocolate and the solid line of Derek’s shoulder pressing comfortably against his. “Movie-watching, in a more private location than this. If you’re still interested.”

Derek squeezed his hand and tore his gaze away from the on-screen bantering to smile at him. He did look a bit like he’d stepped right out of a movie, Stiles thought.

“I told my customers to finish their drinks before they came into your store,” Derek said. “And to stop hassling you about me.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said. “I’ve gotten good at guilting them into buying shit when they spill things. Seriously, though, we have _got_ to change the name of your store. I have ideas.”

“I’m sure you do,” Derek said. He untangled their fingers for long enough to readjust their position, draping the blankets over both of them so he could slide his arm around Stiles’s waist, pressing them closer together.

The new angle made the side of Stiles’s chair dig into his ribs, but he didn’t particularly care. He was close enough now where if he turned his head, his lips would brush against the shell of Derek’s ear. “You know,” he said quietly, “you didn’t stay long enough to test out any mattresses. Were you in the market?”

Derek gave him an almost shy sideways glance. “I might be,” he said. “I’m kinda looking for a longterm investment, though.”

“That’s good,” Stiles said. “Because that’s another thing we have in common. We’ve both moved out of the rental business.”

Derek’s arm tightened around Stiles. “People around town weren’t sure if—you’re planning to stay in Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. At his current job? Probably not. But there was a lot left in this little town that he wanted to explore. “Yeah,” he repeated, giving in to the urge to press his lips against Derek’s stubbled cheek, watching those dark eyelashes flutter in response. “I think I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten so used to the write-and-publish method with fics that it's been kind of agonizing to have this sitting in my writing folder for this long. It also makes it a little harder to finally share it, BUT now that the Sterek Zine is in the mail (or in people's hands), it's time to get it up on AO3. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://paintedrecs.tumblr.com/).


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